


Fight

by kingpeacock



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingpeacock/pseuds/kingpeacock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce always said he'd never use a gun. The after effects hurt far too much, and it turned out? He was right. [Repost from my old account]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight

Bruce was a lot of things. Whatever way you looked at it, he was human, monster, scientist, genius, husband, doctor. A split of personality and talent through his life, perfectly balanced in every way, understanding each segment perfectly now he'd learned to manage it. Clint teased him about being faceted, which was actually a very good way of describing him, when Bruce thought about it.

But even with this list of things he was, there was still a lot of things he wasn't. Like a fighter.

He wasn't even on a mission. No, he was on a peaceful aid mission with S.H.I.E.L.D in Namibia, helping a small village which had become plagued by a virulent form of polio which seemed to be spread through the water, rather than through contact. He was developing a vaccine and working on helping to treat those who were sick, and it was going well. The temporary hospital ward they'd set up in a pop-up building was successfully containing the infection, and even the sickest of the patients was responding well to treatment.

Bruce was sitting in his laboratory when they came. His hearing, made more sensitive by Hulk's existence in the back of his mind, clocked on to the sounds of Bantu being shouted angrily. His eyes settled onto the top drawer of his desk, where Sitwell had secreted a small handgun, just in case. He frowned at himself; was he really so institutionalised now that he immediately thought of a gun over diplomacy?

Then he heard the gun shots. They weren't the same as the American firearms the S.H.I.E.L.D operatives carried. These sounds more random, louder, as though the guns were older and less developed. Bruce felt his stomach coil unpleasantly tight with anxiety, his eyes once again slipping to that drawer.

He'd never fired a gun in a combat situation before. Sure, he knew how to work one, how to fire it - Clint had made sure of that - and now, faced with the possibility of having to, he questioned whether he really could. Hulk wasn't an option here. Fury had told Bruce that any incident involving Hulk on international soil would severely jeopardise his future of being allowed on away missions, and Bruce relied on that trust from Fury to go out with Clint's team and take care of Clint when they were off the Helicarrier. He wasn't going to screw that up.

Reaching into the drawer, anticipation grew and made his hands shake. He felt around for the rough, ridged grip of the handgun, grasping it between his fingertips, holding his breath like a sudden exhale would set the gun off into the drawer and alert whoever their unwanted guests were to his presence. He drew it slowly out of the drawer and stared at it, full of fear, nervousness, but a solid resolve which came through the longer he looked at it.

Survive. Survive for Clint. You have to go home to Clint.

He took a deep breath, pulled on his blazer, and took the safety off the gun. It was some Smith and Wesson thing, black and silver, loaded with ballistic tipped bullets. To prevent ricochet, or something, so he'd heard. It felt huge in his hand, like he was a clown holding a comedic water gun so big he could barely use it, but he held it pointed to the floor in a two handed grip, just like Clint taught him, and he walked slowly out of his little tent.

There were two men laying on their fronts nearby, both shot. Bruce checked their pulses but found both dead, so he moved on, following the sounds of people shouting and talking. Ducking behind an SUV, he peered around it and looked at the scene before him.

There were eight people dressed in more traditional local garb, standing around the four S.H.I.E.L.D operatives and three S.H.I.E.L.D medical staff, pointing guns at them. Nearby, the local villagers who had family in the hospital ward were being held by a similar, small band of local rebels or revolutionaries, their hands clasped behind their heads, begging and asking to be let free.

Sitwell was trying to talk sense into what appeared to be the leader of the small rebel force. Bruce strained his hearing to try and ascertain what Sitwell was saying, but he was too far away. Bruce shifted his feet and crouched down, then froze as there was a crunch just behind him. He felt a cold metal circle pressed against the back of his neck, and it felt like ice ran right through his veins.

Then he realised. It dawned on him with such calm clarity, he felt like he could do anything at all. As the gun was pressed more insistently into his neck, with orders to lay on the floor, his hands tightened on the butt of the gun he was holding. He knew what to do now.

In one fluid motion, he turned the gun and shot blindly over his shoulder. He didn't know at the time, but later found out he'd scored a direct headshot into the man attempting to take him hostage. The sound deafened him, made his ears ring and ache uncomfortably, and he gasped in pain and doubled over.

His action had bought the others time. Sitwell caught up a Kalashnikov from his captor and opened fire, valiantly rescuing the other S.H.I.E.L.D agents and the villagers.

Bruce missed it. He was too busy sitting, holding the gun in his hand, and staring at the bloodied mess of the man he had shot. It had been so easy. Take a breath, squeeze, don't pull, bang. Gone. That man's life, his humour, his beliefs, his loves, all gone. In one blink of an eye. Bruce stared at the man's head, blood pooled beneath it, just visible in the growing gloom, wondering if the man had a family. Would someone miss him? Would they mourn for him?

"Banner? Report." Bruce looked blankly up at Sitwell, and tossed the gun at his feet. "Report!"

"Fuck you." He got to his feet and walked slowly back into his tent-come-laboratory, his hand resting against the wall as a guide. Hs shut up the little doorway, zipping himself in, then turned to his room and stared at it. He couldn't think of a single thing but that man's head, a hole in it where the bullet had ripped through. It had become imprinted on his retinas, refusing to budge no matter how he blinked or rubbed his eyes.

He picked up the bin and threw up everything he'd eaten into it, then put himself to bed. He didn't sleep.

*~*~*

Clint's alarm beeped intermittently at him. He opened one eye and looked at it, then slapped the top to make it quiet, before dropping his head onto his pillow again. He lay there a little while, letting his mind wake up slowly, then he roused himself and got dressed. It was earlier than he usually got up, but after all, it wasn't every day your husband came home from his first away mission without you. He wanted to be there to meet Bruce right off his transport.  
As it stood, a small part of him wished he hadn't. Bruce looked like shit. He clearly hadn't slept, his clothes were ruffled up and dirty, and he hadn't shaved. Clint went right to his side, smiling, greeting him warmly, and Bruce just looked at him. "Baby… You okay?"

Bruce shook his head. "I wanna go home," he said softly, glancing at all the people around them unloading. "Can't… Can't talk here."

Clint nodded and took Bruce's suitcase from his hand to carry for him. "C'mon, you have a date with our apartment," he told him with a laugh, trying to raise his husband's spirits. He'd never seen Bruce like this, not once in all their time together; normally it was him struggling after a mission, and Bruce in full care-giver mode ready to take care of him.

Back at their little apartment, Clint put the suitcase on their small desk and then gently stripped Bruce's blazer off of him. He looked at it properly then, startled by the blood he saw on the cuff. He glanced at Bruce's arm and couldn't see a matching patch on his skin, so he sighed with relief. Bruce was still just standing in the middle of the room where Clint had left him, unmoving, and it took Clint going to him and hugging him close before Bruce said or did anything.

He wrapped himself around Clint, nuzzling his face against Clint's neck and whole-heartedly clutching him close. They stayed like that for a few moments, the seconds ticking by, then he broke. It was like a dam opened somewhere inside him, and he sobbed his heart out on Clint's shoulder until he was shaking, gasping for every breath and shuddering, hardly able to stand. Clint lead him over to the bed and settled him down on the edge, loosening the hug so he could mop Bruce's face with a tissue.

"I gotcha, it's okay," he soothed, gently wiping Bruce's tear-streaked face with the tissue. He fetched a second and handed it to his husband, sitting beside him on the edge of the bed and curling an arm over his shoulders. He waited until Bruce had settled some, his breathing stabilising, nose thoroughly blown into the tissue, then asked, "What happened?"

Bruce sobbed quietly, just once, then took a deep breath and quietened down. "I… I shot him… He had a gun and… I didn’t even think you know? I just… I killed him." It took a while to get the words out, and Bruce knew he wasn't being very coherent. His thoughts were all a jumble, but the relief of finally being home and safe with Clint was making it easier to think and relax. "I shot him."

Clint had no idea what the situation was, but he knew Bruce wouldn't have just shot someone at random because he felt like it. Something, some situation, would have forced his hand. "Did he try and hurt you?"

Bruce nodded slowly, sadly, staring at the tissue stretched between his two hands. He wrapped it absently around his thumb, then unwound it, then folded it into a triangle, then into a little boat-shape, then wrapped it around his fingers, over, and over, and over. "They came to the village and everyone… Had everyone captive. Not me, missed me, and I was… I tried to hide or rescue them all. But he came along, there was a gun against my head… I just fired. And I hit him. I didn't… I didn't mean to kill him…" Bruce trailed off, knowing he didn't need to say anymore. Clint understood. "S'blood on my hands and it's stuck to me forever."

Clint sighed sadly. He knew how Bruce felt; the guilt, the sadness, the way you could see every moment of the incident in slow motion. A frame-by-frame replay continually playing in your head so you can't escape it. He rested his hand on Bruce's forearm, nuzzling against his shoulder. "You know what's gonna happen?" Bruce shook his head uncertainly, a thin thrill of nerves running through him. "You're going to shower, get changed, get some sleep. I'm going to go get you food while you sleep. Then, we'll eat, and sleep some more, and I'll be here to hold onto you through every step. Every moment. I promise."

Bruce looked up then, leaning over and kissing Clint gently, timidly. "I love you."


End file.
